Snitches, Thieves, Law, and Lovers
by nevynebula
Summary: Arya Stark was once from a wealthy family- but the illness and wreck of 1820s London sent her into a downward spiral, down into the employment of Sandor Clegane, chief of thieves. But, when an old rival turns out to be an ally, the clouds clear, and romance replaces disease.
1. A New Piece for the Board

Sandor Clegane slammed his fist down on his tactics board, hissed something through clenched teeth, then turned his attention to his companion. "There'll be lots of rats trying to snatch up this job, Runt, but you need to be the first. You need to be the best." The Hound was very picky about his vocabulary.

Most of the wooden pieces set on the table to represent him and his employees had fallen, rolling back and forth defeatedly, but his and Arya's pieces were still standing. "What if he gets to it first?" The girl piped up. She didn't speak his name, for fear of the vile word poisoning the air she breathed.

"That won't happen. You won't let it. I haven't seen much of you, but from what I have, I know you could slit that fucker's throat without him even sniffing the steel." In her captor's voice was a command, but peel away the layers of harshness, there was faith. Captor or friend, she still hadn't decided what he was to her. He fed her and housed her (most of the time), but he also sent her to do dirty work that could get her executed before she could name him an accomplice.

The only other piece still standing represented Robert Baratheon. He had been stealing priceless jewels since Arya was squalling and swaddled. Thieves, good folks, and officers of the law knew his name well- it was never far from wanted boards or envious lips, never sounded right, and never sounded wrong in the same. The wolf girl had even known about him when she was on the streets.

She hadn't heard much of him lately, she suspected maybe his experiences in prison left him a law abiding man, but there were still whispers that he was at it again. _He may be, and if he is, it doesn't matter. He's old and fat, and I'm young and quick, _she reassured herself. _Anything he can do, so can I. _She told herself it was like chasing a slower, fatter cat, like she used to do in her dancing lessons. She winced at the memory.

In his youth, he'd been muscular, barrel chested, and loud. Some said he went bad after his wife, Lyanna caught ill and died, and some said he was always bad. At least, that's what the Hound had told her, among the frequent mutterings about how 'bloody gallant' he was, or how he 'bled wine and shit gold'. To which, she'd interrupted with, "I thought that was Tywin Lannister?". The Hound swatted her response away with another sharp remark. "Fine then, he shits Tywin Lannister's gold. That's how good of a bloody rat he is. Or was, I suppose."

Some years ago, when Arya was still only stealing her dinner, she'd heard that he'd been caught in some baron's mansion. Seeing as he was practically the baron of thieves, she investigated further. She took down a fat pidgeon and sold it to one of the poorer officers for information on this notorious criminal, who'd somehow been caught.

"Yeah, that growin' belly of 'is got in the way and triggered an alarm." He leaned in closer to her, and she caught the scent of whisky heavy on his breath. "Apparently so drunk he couldn't see straight, like that brother of his." He winked sluggishly, and laughed to himself. "Rainbow guard, is that what he's calling it now?" He sniggered. "I know what colour that Tyrell boy'd be." Arya rolled her eyes when he wasn't looking and bid him a good day, facing the cool night air, which seemed to cling to 1823 like there wouldn't be another year for it.

Sandor chewed his sourleaf for a moment more, beady eyes so intently fixed on the board that Arya was sure he'd burn a hole through it. Finally, he straightened, rolling his shoulders. "No time to worry about that now, Runt. We have someone to go see in Journeyman's Quarter." He barked, shrugging on his tattered trench coat.

Arya, without realizing it, mimicked him, adjusting her own leather back into place. The clothes she wore were dangerous and definitely not warm enough, but they were quiet and dark. Just what she needed. Quick like a shadow, she was. "Journeyman's Quarter? What for?" Journeyman's Quarter was one of the richer parts of Thatching, her and the Hound making an appearance there would be like two fish climbing willingly out of water.

Sandor held open the door for her, eyes to the ground. He wasn't usually this nice to her, clearly he wanted something, something big. There was a job waiting for her in Journeyman's Quarter, she knew it.

Outside she was greeted with the usual array of filth, the brothel down the street always provided some, but that didn't bother her. She was too numb. Rain touched her face ever so gently, the cobblestone beneath her wet and long since riddled with cracks and breaks she'd learnt to dodge.

Homeless jingled coins in their cups to the rhythm of their repeated "spare some"s and "I've got kids"s, even though they knew no one had anything to spare, and that everyone knew they did not have any children. Unless said children lived in the opium den down the street.

Arya had to walk doubly fast to keep up with the Hound's long strides. He turned his collar up, but Arya had long since built an immunity to the weather. She was, after all, a thief; her kind could not afford to feel the cold.

The train they hopped on didn't bother to ask their purpose in the Quarter, nor their names. How they were related. No one cared here, as long as they could go home at night, you were not their problem. They had too many already on their plate, food, ironically, being one of them.

Arya was beginning to drift off, her head lolling on to the window, eyes drooping closed, when Sandor yanked her back into consciousness. "Know that crooked blacksmith? The one whose son jumped into the Thames and never returned?" He didn't look at her, but rather watched the dreary hills of yellowed grass stretch outside his window. Arya nodded wordlessly.

"Word is he heard something in his shop a fortnight past, a rustling, something dropping. Says there was a thief, and not one of ours."

Sandor ran a network of people, all engaged in his crimes, all other links in his chain. They either whispered in certain ears and spread rumours that would cover his trail, or they snatched his salvation in the dead of night. In return, he kept them alive. In Thatching, that was a well valued prize. "So? Why-" She stopped herself after being given a pointed look. He'd been trying to teach her not to ask questions she hadn't already thought about, apparently not everyone would put up with it. So she pondered his words for a moment more.

His network was large, most of Beggars Round belonged to him, but even so, there were stragglers. Unpredictables. Only they were found. "Was he caught? Did anyone find him after that?" She pursed her lips. Sandor shook his head.

The train screeched to a halt as the Hound opened his mouth to speak again. He creaked to his feet, placing his beaten tophat on his head, tilting it over the burnt side of his face. "You'll see." He croaked. Arya trailed behind him, suddenly aware of her exposed shoulders. She tucked her polished daggers farther into her boots, feeling the tips prod her bare ankles.

In the streets of the Quarter, crier's wailed the day's news, waving sodden papers in the faces of those stupid enough to pay attention. Homeless still littered the streets, but less than home, Arya observed. They didn't beg. Most of them slept, if they could. Arya saw a woman drop a coin in man's cup. _Yes,_ she thought, _that one has the right of it. People don't like to give unless it's their idea. _

The Hound led her through crooked alleyways and under frozen pipes, over the sick and under the wealthy, until they reached the blacksmith's shop. A bell tinkled overhead as they entered, and immediately Arya was hooked.

Weapons of all sorts were strewn about the leaning shack, hung on the walls, laying carelessly on the floor. She made a point to inspect each one of them, her black leather jerkin groaning as she bent down to look at a set of daggers on the ground.

She shot to her feet as a tall, greying man strolled out from beneath a curtain at the other side of the shop. "Can I help you?" His accent was thick, but there was no malice to his voice.

Sandor gestured to a musket on the wall. "How much for that hunk of junk?" He rasped. Arya pursed her lips.

The blacksmith seemed rather taken aback. "I do believe my works are more than beaten steel, but it's two silver bits. One for guards." He explained, glancing up at the gun almost self consciously.

The Hound squinted. "Right." He said quietly. He'd done work for the guard, years ago, but he'd never said the vows. It had cost him, but he was glad for his choice. He might have said them, but when he saved Sansa Stark, Arya's sister, from a group of rapers, he closed that door completely. The Lannister househould could use her sister, but loved her even less than Arya did. She winced at the thought, her heart panging. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, _she thought. _I was just a stupid little girl._ She missed her sister, however different they may be. Wolfs blood ran in the redhead's veins and called to her own, but Sansa was out of reach. Arya hadn't seen her in years, but oh gods, what she would give to see her again. "I'm going to be honest with you and tell you I'm not here for your shit works, I'm here for information. One of my little mice told me there was a thief in here last night." He quirked a brow.

The blacksmith opened his mouth and then closed it again, searching for the right words. His eyes flit over the Hound's hulking frame, and then to Arya, who was positive that even for her small stature, she still looked menacing enough. "I'm sorry, I can't tell you anything about that."

Arya stepped forward, ignoring Sandor's negative response. "You can, and you will." She flashed the hilt of the dagger stored in her shirt, right at her heart. She don't know why she kept it there, but it seemed right. Its presence was comforting. She was cold hard steel inside and out.

The blacksmith's pale blue eyes widened as he gulped, nodding slowly. "Okay, okay. Take a seat, then." Neither of them sat.

"Suit yourself. Last night,the wee hours of the morning, I heard something in my shop from upstairs where I sleep. I heard something fall and went down to investigate; I thought maybe some critters had gotten into my ale." He paused, shaking his head. "When I got down there, there were no critters, but a bottle of polish was tipped over and nearly empty, and there was a rag soaking in it. I flashed my torch over the corner nearest- and there he was." The room had gone silent, apart from Sandor's heavy breathing.

"There who was?" Arya sliced through the quiet.

"Robert Baratheon."

-  
Well, guys. It's been a couple months, I've been writing mostly poetry and getting into new stuff. I'm sorry I dropped my other fic, but I'll be picking something else up soon along the same lines. Anyway, here's some Gendrya to soothe your shipper hearts, though you'll have to be patient cause it doesn't start until chapter 2. Also I'm wondering what to rate this. There isn't gonna be any smut, but you know there's gonna be some swearing with the good ol' Hound in your fic. I don't really get the fanfiction ratings though- anyone mind dropping a suggestion in the reviews?  
Next chapter: In which Arya is not quick enough, and Robert Baratheon isn't who he seems.

ps; I fixed it. Copy and paste is a finicky lil bitch :)


	2. Wolf's Head

Arya flinched at the name and looked at her companion, who seemed just as surprised and revolted as she did. She shook her head to clear it of the thousand questions and looked back to the blacksmith, eyes narrowing. "That's impossible. Roberth Baratheon was caught three years ago in the Baron Heist for the Targaryen Jewels." She said, her tone all ice.

The blacksmith shook his head, clicking his tongue. "No, no, no. It was definitely him, I know the Baratheon eyes. I know them, ain't a blue like it. He was slim, maybe the prison didn't give him very much, but I swear on the Smith it was definitely him." The Hound radiated suspicion, so the blacksmith prattled on. "Look," he paused, leaning toward them. "I heard some at the pub saying that the jeweler down Cramer is getting his locks replaced." He gestured to the gun Sandor was eyeing earlier. "Bring me back a diamond the size of a pea, and you can have any one of these pretty weapons."

Arya glanced at the daggers she'd been looking at, and then at the Hound. _He'll want the musket on the wall_, she thought, but she wondered what she'd get in return for it. Extra food maybe?

Sandor pursed his lips and turned to her, nodding his head in acknowledgement. "What do you want?" He said quietly.

Arya sighed, her lip curling. "I could get you that musket, but I'd want some more food for the week, a real chi-" She was cut off.

"No," The Hound barked, shaking his head. "These." He nodded toward the weapons.

Arya was taken aback. She didn't expect this from him, not in a million years. She pointed mutely to the daggers on the floor. "Done." He said to the Blacksmith, his eyes not leaving her prize.

Sandor pivoted on his heel and strode out the door, coat billowing, not waiting a minute for his companion. Arya was about to trail after him, but the blacksmith called to her. "Girl." She winced. She was 13 now, her body had begun to fill out. No one had called her girl in a long time. "Be careful, I wouldn't want a pretty thing like you to get hurt." He eyed her greedily, as if he'd been saving it for when the Hound had left.

Arya ground her teeth, clenching her fist. "I'm not pretty." She said, her voice flat and indifferent. "And I don't get hurt." She shut the door behind her and faced the Quarter, shaking her head. "Not anymore." She muttered, head held high as she searched for her employer.

The Hound, as always, had turned his gaze away from the looks being shot at him, deflected them rather. He would not let them hurt him. At, first, Arya had thought he had some sort of god complex, but soon after she'd learnt that really he just had nothing left to lose.

She hadn't realized it, but she'd slowed down to watch some children playing Lord of the Crossing. The Lord, a skinny girl like herself, snapped a command. Her brother, a bigger boy cursed and attempted to push her off of her plank. Arya, without thinking, rushed forward to catch her before she collided with her pavement. The girl looked up at her with awe, and smiled, showing off the gap between her two front teeth. She muttered a thank you and stood back up. Arya glared at her brother, who was studying her with a feeble sort of courage a pup would, looking at a dog much bigger than itself.

Their mother stumbled out from behind an adjacent corner and shooed them away, holding them close to her as if Arya was some threat. She supposed she was, but there was a time when she would have asked to join their game. She remembered when she used to play with her brother Bran, while Sansa watched. Jon, sometimes, would play, just for her. He'd ruffle her soggy hair and call her little sister, though they were related only half. She smiled sadly at the memory, watching the little girl she'd caught scamper away, bickering with her brother. It was like looking in a mirror.

"Don't tell me you've gone sentimental. Thieves can't be mushy." Sandor had snuck up behind her. Funny, she was the one who was supposed to do the sneaking.

She shook her head, heaved a sigh, and whirled around to face him, expressionless. "Forget about that bullshit I told you about this morning, you'll be going on that blacksmith's run. I don't care if you're chasing smoke, that jewelers is where you'll find Baratheon, if you're going to find him at all. He did always love his jewels." The Hound continued, sucking his teeth in disgust. Arya rolled her eyes. She found it tiring, hatred. She used to feel everything so intensly, so deeply. She did still feel, she wasn't completely numb, but she'd be lying if she said most of it wasn't apathy.

Back in their own slice of Thatching, the two hopped down the steep steps into their damp home, their feet practiced but weary in the same.

The Hound tossed her a hunk of bread, not doubting for a moment that she'd catch it. She tore off a bite savagely, not bothering to shut her mouth as she chewed. Sandor glanced out the window, at the stars above. His lip curling, he turned to her. "Suit up, you've gotta go, Runt." He said around a mouthful of bread. She nodded, swallowed, and ducked into her tiny chambers, humming a tune she'd long forgotten the name of.

She flung open the rotten-wooded chest where she kept her gear. She only strapped one bag to her belt this time, the blacksmith's price was little, and not what she was searching for, but she wanted those daggers, and would not forget to bring him what he asked for. Her leather jerkin was jet black and rose to her throat, but was cut at the beginning of her shoulders. Needle, as always, was strapped to her side. Her leggings, a simple leather of the same colour as her bodice, fit tightly but allowed her to move and bend in any way she wished, perfect for creeping along rafters or ducking under beams. She tied up her hair efficiently, as it just tickled her shoulders by now. She stared at herself in the mirror, into her own coal black eyes. There was nothing to find.

Cramer Alley was not too far from where her and the Hound lived, and she knew the jeweler's place well, though they'd never let her inside. Once outside, she hovered behind a corner and stiffened, listening closely. She heard the crackle of burning torches, hushed voices, but no guards. _This is where it gets interesting,_ she thought to herself, grinning.

She crept along the road, glancing about routinely as she swept into an alley she knew well. Following the zigzag pattern until the end of the alleyway, she tightened her hair tie and crouched low to the ground. Before her was a grate, and beyond, a dimly lit vent. A small space for a small girl. In a hollow box to her right, which was marked 'cabbage' she had hidden a belt of tools. She snatched them from under a bed of wood shavings and attatched them to her belt before drawing the screw driver.

Looking warily around the corner, she set to work, twisting the screws until they popped out. The grate fell to the pavement with a clang, and Arya grimaced, but got to her hands and knees and crawled into the vent.

At a fork in the structure she sat back on her haunches. Left would take her around the church and through Helgin's Slums, where she blended in, but wasn't safe in the least. Right would take her around the clock tower, where she could scamper along roofs instead. She supposed neither was safe, but she settled for the path she thought Robert Baratheon would choose. After so much of the Hound's insistence that he was arrogant, she took a right. the Slums were no place for a thief king.

The tunnel narrowed considerably, almost so much that she couldn't continue, but it took a sharp turn upwards. Arya reached up a pale hand and and moved the grate aside, white fingers of light touching her face from the space above. She climbed into the church, emerging just behind the podium. She shivered. It felt wrong to be in a church- throw some holy water on her and she'd melt.

She pushed open the church doors and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with poison air. The clocktower loomed before her, an ominous shadow that she was all too familiar with. Knowingly, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The air was musty, clouds of dust arose when she took a step, but she could see clear footprints much bigger than hers. She squinted and crouched to the floor, examining the boot. Expensive. Leather, she noted.

She dismissed the matter and started up the stairs, expert feet making little to no noise as they scampered up the steep steps to the bells. She reached the top and took a moment to catch her breath, leaning on a beam and gazing out at the city before her.

Arya liked it her- she could see every drunk, harlett, and child, but they couldn't see her. It was thrilling to know that no one looked up. She shinnied through the bells to the other side of the tower.

The jewelers was right beneath the west side of the tower. It was the only building on Cramer that seemed to be standing on its own- its windows illuminated to show off the priceless jewels on velvet cushions inside. She had a queer love for the store, but also a passionate hatred.

Haphazardly climbing down the latter to her right, her feet gained back their sense of sureness. But then she heard footsteps.

Gasping, she sank behind a corner, her lips pursed. The guards talked loudly, chattering on about their wives. Or brothels, she couldn't tell. She could see by now that at least one of them had a torch- and that there was definitely a pod of them. Gnawing on her lip, she forced herself to stay put. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The guards walked by without noticing waited a little longer before tiptoeing to the jewelers. She peeked in the window to see only a guard, pacing back and forth, admiring the trinkets greedily. Smirking, she entered a tunnel set into the building adjacent.

The tunnel let out on the roof of a few buildings over. From where she was, she could see an entrance, just a small spot in the roof that would let her on to the rafters. Perfect.

She hopped over pipes and through tendrils of fog until she reached her entrance. Calm and still like water. Bending backwards, she was able to squeeze her hips through the hold and on to a sturdy beam.

Below her, the guard was still pacing. She didn't have much time. As he turned away from her, she lept on to his back, her knees planted in his shoulders, and knocked him out with one swift blow from the claw. She winced. It was louder than she wanted it to be.

She hauled the guard's unconscious body to a closet nearby and stashed him inside as best she could, locking the doors tight so that his weight wouldn't shift them open.

Keeping her eyes peeled, she strolled among the jewelry, eyes brushing over emeralds, rubies, amber, and diamonds alike. Finally she happened upon a ring that looked like it would fit the blacksmith's price nicely.

But, beside it, she saw something else. A pendant, embedded with pearls, in the shape of a sidefaced direwolf. Smiling softly, Arya was about to put her hand on the glass, but she knew better. She licked her lips, and looked over her shoulder. It was right beside the ring... If only she could..

She shook her head and set herself to the task at hand. She grabbed a lockpick from her bag and poked it into the key hole, hands working deftly and carefully as she clipped her breathing so that she could hear better.

A defeated click allowed her inside. She grabbed the ring and shut the door again, and then moved to her pendant, her heart beating faster now. One, two, just one more click-

"Are you lost?"

She didn't know that voice, but she was almost certain she knew who it belonged to.


	3. Alley Cat

Arya froze for a moment, slack-jawed. Robert Baratheon had just spoken to her. She wasn't sure whether her eyes sang of awestruck horror or reverence. In the end, she decided to manipulate the scale to sit pleasantly in the middle. Respectful hatred. She pondered her options for another minute- she could play it off as if she were a scared little girl, all elbows and knees, certainly lost. But that was impossible, she remembered. She was no longer a scared little girl. Maybe still composed of angles and city soot, but she'd never been good at acting like her sister was, and she didn't allow herself to get scared anymore. It was an unspoken virtue of hers. "If it looked like I was simply lost while picking the lock to a cabinet of jewels, I'd be stealing from the duke."

Robert cocked his head to the side and let his eyes sweep over her narrow frame. His stare did not hold lust or even hate, but rather a peculiar curiosity. They slid down her shoulders, pausing on her wrists where her blades were hidden, and again at her boots where the real fun began. Arya did not feel exposed, but rather like she had something to prove.

Before she could say anything, her opponent knelt and set to work picking the lock she hadn't finished. Taken aback, Arya snapped into gear, but "Hey! That's mine!" She tried to grab hold of him, to wrench him away from her prize, but he wouldn't budge. His arms were firm, his expression a mask of concentration.

"Shut up, you'll wake someone!" He finally commaded, just as she drew her daggers to strike. She kept her blade poised and her eyes fixed on his- she deemed herself in a state of hostile confusion. She didn't know whether the knots of thrill forming in her stomach were the fact that he could kill her in one second flat- or the fact that he hadn't. "I'm just giving you a hand." He glanced up at her.

Her eyes steeled against his. "I don't need it." He said nothing for a long while, he just looked at her, no, stared at her, like she was a broken bird flying perfectly. This gave her time to study him carefully. Her brown eyes raked in his stormy blue-green ones, her gaze brushing tentatively on the whisps of stubble on his simply squared jaw, dark to match the wild tangle of raven hair on his head. He was all muscle, but he held himself like he was trying to be something he wasn't. His attire was simple but adjusted to his..._profession_ just as hers was. His tunic did not look thick or overbearing, nor his leggings- the only thing that did look out of place were the leather boots, and the helmet at his back. Freshly polished. He mimicked the movements of a man who was sure of them, but he licked his lips too often. Swallowed too much. His eyes flit away from her hard gaze- there was just something _wrong_ with this picture, a gap between his living, breathing form, so close she could touch him, and the facts she had thought to be sturdy.

He was just so _young_.

Arya forced the thought from her mind. He _had_ to be Robert. "I don't want help from Robert Baratheon, and I certainly don't need it." She persisted, sucking her teeth.

The kneeling boy turned his face to hers, the soft light lending only to its hollows in all the right places, and furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, Robert Baratheon?" The confusion in his voice was genuine, but she was to irritated to recognize it right this minute.

Scoffing, Arya leaned back on a jewelry case at her back, careful not to touch the glass. "What do you mean, what do I mean? I saw your footprints back there, I guess I was just too stupid to think they could be yours." She gestured to his boots, the soles of which were dusted lightly from where they'd marked her path.

He seemed to be having trouble keeping up with her. "Woah woah, you said Robert Baratheon? As in wine, a gut, girls? King of Thieves, Robert Baratheon?" One side of his mouth stretched into a crooked grin, painting his face with youth. Chuckling, he returned to picking the lock she'd been working at. "Don't be daft. I don't know where you're getting your info- but Robert Baratheon is dead." The humour in his tone vanished, a strange sort of coldness in its stead.

"But the H- Someone said he came out of prison recently, that he was gaunt as a ghost. They told me he was at it again- and they told me he had a helmet." Sucking her teeth, she indicated the hunk of metal slung around his waist. "Doesn't it slow you down?" She had him cornered now; he could only wait for her to signal which move to make. "I guess that was a rather stupid question, as obviously it got you caught last night." Rolling her shoulders to the rhythm of her regaining confidence, she leaned in close to him. "If you're not Robert Baratheon, who are you?"

The lock clicked, and the man she had thought to be her enemy offered her something worth more than the two of them combined. Her direwolf pendant. "I'm his son. My name is Gendry." The look he gave her now could have been forlorn, if he han't quirked a challenging brow.

Gendry stood, his stocky build becoming more clear as she watched his muscles pull taut in the pale light. Her chest rose with him, and fell as he claimed her gaze again, talon-like fingers of moonlight illuminating him from the large window on his side.

"Arya." She murmured in response. More sudden than she would've liked, (though she'd never admit it), something on the street yanked her eyes off of him.

Outside, two guards chatted merrily, their torch flames licking at the damp air eagerly, threatening to shed orange light on the two thieves' frozen forms. "Don't. Move." Arya whispered. Her entire body felt like a livewire.

Gendry didn't seem to understand what she was so afraid of. He shifted his weight casually and _then_ caught sight of the guards, _just_ as they caught sight of him.

"Now you've done it." Arya growled, grabbing him by the wrist. "Do exactly what I say and keep up." She snatched her jeweled direwolf from his hands and tightened her grip, enjoying thoroughly the feel of pulsing muscle beneath her fingers.

There was no hope of him fitting through that tunnel, so instead she lead him through the front door, into the night. "Keep your face out of the light." She hissed, fingers still tight around his wrist.

The guards had gone inside just as they left, so they had a bit of a headstart. Careening right into a short alleyway, Arya fumbled for the grate ladder she couldn't exactly see, but knew was there. Her fingers looped through bitingly cold metal and she tugged downward, ushering Gendry forward. The guards were hot on their tail- Arya had just clambered on top of the building as one of them made a wild grab at her foot.

Chest heaving, she danced across the rooftops with a waterdancer's balance and the light feet of a cat, each step carefully planned out in some corner of her mind she could not name. Gendry, on the other hand, was not having such an easy time. _No wonder he got caught_, Arya thought. Frequently, she had to check over her shoulder for him.

Finally, they hopped off of the last roof and on to a flat one. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" Arya said, her voice carrying itself freely throughout the vast span of musty city layed out before them. A breathless chuckle came from behind her.

"YOU UP THERE, COME DOWN BEFORE I SHOOT YOU DOWN." A harsh voice sliced through the darkness, the gleam of a gun catching Arya's eye. Muttering a string of curses the Hound would have been proud of, she snatched again for Gendry's wrist, but instead ended up clutching his hand. She didn't know why she was doing this, why she was helping him. She could probably get away seamlessly if she let him take the fall, but some tiny part of her liked _feeling_ again, feeling his pulse quicken when she squeezed his palm, by accident or not, the sweat forming in their heartlines mingling. She liked feeling _alive_.

She lead him artfully through a path only her feet knew, a maze of zig-zags and bends and circles. His mind reeling was almost audible. The guard who'd seen them had long abandoned the chase, but Arya just wanted to run.

They emerged at the end of their walk at the Thames, facing the harbor. The wobbly moonlight on the water's surface cast an eery, yet somehow comforting glow across the ships and their ports, reaching up the masts and dipping back down to rest at the water lapping beneath. The air smelled of feces, rotten fish, and polluted water, yet somehow right now it smelled so good. It was fresh, it didn't belong to anyone. She turned to her companion. "I'm sorry." She didn't know exactly what she was apologizing for, but it seemed right.

Gendry looked down and seemed to realize just now that their hands were still intertwined. He didn't seem in any rush to let go, but Arya, who was blushing furiously, untangled their fingers and gnawed at her lip. This only made Gendry grin. She creaked into a lazy sitting position on the stairs down to the harbour, sighing heavily. "Not Robert Baratheon." She muttered. "His son."

Gendry sat down beside her, picking at his fingernails. "That's it, pure and simple." He added, squinting out over the river at something beyond, a fixed point on the horizon only visible to his stormy eyes.

"How'd you end up a shoddy criminal, Gendry?" She propped herself up on one elbow to face him, shuddering slightly. Her revealing leather attire wasn't convenient on cold nights like this, but usually she didn't take so long.

He didn't answer for a long time, but Arya could tell he was trying. His expression was drawn- Arya knew the look. It was the look you had when you were trying to find the right words to say to someone so that your situation didn't sound as bad as it really was. "I never knew him, just so you know. I grew up a blacksmith's apprentice, don't even know who my mum was." He reached behind him to his helmet, from which he pulled, miraculously, a decently thick wrap. "I don't just carry it, you know. I carry stuff in it." He murmured, tossing it to her.

"Uh- Th-thank you." She hadn't been shown such a casual kindness in a long time. She wrapped it around herself and hugged her knees, eyes still intently fixed on her companion's. "That's not it, how did you get _here_. Stealing, like I do."

Gendry stared at her for a long long time, and she stared at him for longer. He grinned a moment. "I don't steal like you do." Arya was not one for sensitivity, and she could tell he admired that. "I'll tell you some other time." With this he rose to his feet, joints creaking. He gave her a parting wave and faced the city once again.

Suddenly remembering what this night had been for, Arya grasped the wrapping around her shoulders. "Gendry! Wait!" She called. She scurried over to him on light feet and took something out of the burlap sack she carried- the ring for the blacksmith. "Give this to the blacksmith in Journeyman's. He'll give you the choice of his weapons, tell him I sent you." She figured he hadn't had the chance to get anything before they collided. She paused, chewing her lip. "There're some daggers I think you'd like, they're a bit more stealthy than a sword." She pointed to the blade hanging at his belt.

"Oh! And the wrap-"She moved to take it off, but he stopped her, placing a warm hand over her cold one. "Keep it." He murmured.

Walking away, Arya was stunned. She stayed just long enough to hear him call once more to her. "Cross my path, alley cat. I'll be waiting. That clocktower isn't just yours." 


	4. Thieving on Eggshells

Arya hovered outside her door, balling her hands into fists. What would she tell him? She'd just given someone she barely knew the reward for _her_ job, and she didn't even find what he was looking for. She'd just completely failed, and she had to tell him it was an accident.

Remembering herself, she slipped the wrap off of her shoulders and curled it in her fist, entering her and the Hound's sunken hideout as if she were guilty of nothing. Clapping eyes on him only made her heart rate quicken. She hastened her stride only by a little, aiming just to cut into her chambers, but she was not fast enough.

"Well?" His raspy voice was like a saw in the musty silence that always seemed to hang between them, rusted with bad blood and high expectancies. Her pulse stumbled- it was too late now.

"Well what?" She stalled, brushing a hand over her mouth subconsciously.

Sandor turned his gaze to the board between them, and then back at her. "You know what. How did the job go? Did you get anything beside that blacksmith's fucking diamond?" He tapped his fingers on the table impatiently, yellowing nails _click clacking_ against the damp map stretched across it.

She shrugged lopsidedly and stared at the ground, tracing the floorboards with her eyes. The direwolf pendant she'd hung at her throat seemed to be choking her now. Clearing her throat needlessly, she forced herself to look at him. "No, not really. I got the ring but I heard someone moving upstairs so I had to leave- I'd already taken out one guard."

The Hound was not finished with her yet. He folded his arms and blew some wispy hair out of his face; displaying his burn as if to intimidate her. "So where is it then? The diamond?" His tone was barely above susurrous.

Arya chewed the inside of her cheeks. She was so close. "It's already with the blacksmith. I dropped by after the run and gave it to him." _Happy now?_ She thought.

Sandor took a deep breath, and for just one minute, Arya thought maybe he'd let her go. But of course not. He had to have every detail. "Did you get the daggers you wanted?" He picked up his piece from the board and tossed it from one hand to the other.

"I said I'd pick them up tomorrow." She snapped, almost too quickly. The Hound gave her a last skeptical glance, but let her go. Warm relief trickling through her chest, she stole to her chambers.

Inside, she stripped down her thieves' gear and put on her sleeping linens instead. The only ones she had, and undoubtedly needing a wash, but they sufficed. She drifted off to sleep with her direwolf clasped firmly between her tiny, freezing hands.

Arya woke up to dawn reaching in the tiny window, shaking her softly by the shoulders. Wait, no. That was Sandor, and it definitely wasn't soft. "What?!" She snapped into consciousness sharply. She had trained herself not to be groggy.

The Hound stood over her in all his tattered glory. "You lied to me, Runt. I went to the blacksmith's today and the daggers weren't there." Furiously, he grabbed her by the arm and tugged her harshly to her feet, his fingertips like knives in her soft flesh.

Refusing to cower beneath him, she held her head high to look him in the face, though her head was swimming. Processing what he was saying, she knit her brow. "What?" As the memories of the previous night flooded back to her, she hurriedly kicked some covers over her direwolf. "That has nothing to do with me." She turned her shoulder to him as if to protect her little deception. "Maybe he got a better offer."

He massaged his temples for a minute. "He said someone had already picked them up, with a diamond just like he asked for." When Arya didn't answer, he growled in frustration and let her arm go. "He said it was a man. This damned festival makes everyone drunk, but not even the septon could be drunk enough to confuse you for a man."

Licking her lips, Arya rubbed her arm and pursed her lips. "I don't know anything about that." She held his icy stare as long as she could, but she had to look away. She knew lying would come back around. Attempting to change the subject, she cleared her throat and said, "What's for breakfast?" She knew the answer would probably be something along the lines of bread, water, or nothing, but she asked anyway.

"Nothing for you. Don't lie to me again." Ah, the third option. The Hound sauntered away, and Arya heard the front door slam shut behind him.

Donning her gear again, Arya emerged into the soggy morning with her direwolf around her neck and a task on her hands. She had to find him, and soon. His voice echoed softly in her mind; _that clocktower isn't just yours_.

Still sore from last night's adventure, she settled for weaving through the crowds of the market instead of alleyways and tunnels. It was daytime, no one would bother her. As always the street was crowded with vendors selling more or less fresh fruit, dismal looking meat, and spices that definitely didn't look like spices. Beggars jingled their coins, and they all faced another day.

Spotting a woman arguing with a vendor about the price of his apples, Arya smirked and grabbed one nonchalantly from the east wall of his lean-to shop while he was distracted. The guards positioned behind them took no notice, they were too busy staring longingly at the brothel sitting cozily beyond.

Taking a last luxurious bite of sweet fruit from her stolen apple, Arya entered the clocktower with sticky hands and a decently full stomach. Tossing her apple core lazily out the broken window to her left, she looked around for a water source. Her eyes settled on a bucket, which seemed to be used to stifle the leak. It wasn't hers. Shrugging, she rinsed her hands in the rainwater and hopped up the stairs to her own little nook.

A gleam of metal caught her eye. On the chest where she stored her own stolen trinkets, the two daggers winked at her mischieviously. Brow creased, she walked over to inspect them. A note beneath them read in a hasty scrawl, '_Your style. Not mine._' This denouement only sparked her curiosity.

It seemed lately that Gendry Baratheon was an evanescent flame, a fugacious essence of adventure that faded as quickly as it ignited, snuffed out by reality's crashing storm.

Due to the extravagant festival raging on in the streets of their quaint little town, stealing had been bountiful. Most everyone was preparing for the big event with a growing sense of ease and a good deal of liquor, creating an easy environment for Arya and her particular skill set.

Because of her newly jingling pockets, Arya had the time and money to relax. Well, relax as much as one can when one is a criminal/missing highborn. Subconsciously- she had begun to look for the puff of smoke named Gendry.

She was always one to gaze about a place as she entered, but since that night her dark eyes always seemed to be _looking_ for something. Her icy stare would stumble over someone with raven hair, someone with his build, someone his height. Arya was never one for patience, and the feeble, fleeting parting remark he'd called to her upon his departure only starved her curiosity further. It was a beast growing ever hungrier, and would gnaw at her mind when she did not feed it. Though the wrap he'd given her was just crude cloth, it felt like gossamer.

Stepping into an inn a fortnight after their friendly collision, Arya wrung her ponytail, cold droplets of rain gliding down her spine. The continous downpour outside had chilled her to the bone, and she'd just stolen a heap of gold. She needed to get out of sight.

She pulled a couple coppers from her bag and strode up to the bar as confident as a 13 year old could, leaning her elbows on the counter. "Hot cider?" She called over the ruckus.

The bartender nodded and flashed 2 fingers at her- 2 minutes. Strange. In her experience, they asked for your money prior to serving you. She chalked it to festival time nearing.

2 minutes later, her steaming cider in her hands, she turned around onto to bump into a particularly stocky, raven haired, blue eyed wall. The cider, which was still scalding, spilled all over the both of them. Arya got the worst of it- the burn was splashed across her shoulders and collarbones where her bodice only allowed a little space. Gendry, on the other hand, was drenched, but unharmed.

"Oh gods, I'm so sorry. Hold on." He whirled around to grab a handkerchief from a passing barmaid, but upon turning back to face a burnt and angry Arya, he realized who she was. "Well then." He pressed the kerchief into her hands, gnawing at his lip. "I'm really awfully sorry, are you alright?" His words were concerned but he couldn't help but laugh.

Skin stinging, she whipped him with the kerchief. "I'm supposed to do the sneaking, you stupid." She groaned, but his smile spread to hers and they were both chuckling, despite their injuries and soaked garb.

A last laugh rolling off of his lips, he gave her a playful shove and turned to the bartender, grinning crookedly. "Two cups of mulled wine." His voice, she observed, people listened to. They sat down with their less scalding drinks at the only table that was not completely filled. However, a drunk fool and an even drunker septon seemed to be having a contest beside them.

"It's been 6 days and all i've seen of you are your stupid daggers." This was her way of thanking him. It was inefficient and rather contradictory to the point, but her easy smile seemed to get the message across. "That clocktower's not just yours." She imitated his voice. "Gods, who leaves with a stupid remark like that."

Gendry took a sip from his cup and stared up at her through long, inky lashes. "Are you counting now?" He said, voice muffled by the cup.

Arya rolled her eyes and prayed to the Seven that she wasn't blushing. She probably was, but plan b was to blame it on the inn's bustling atmosphere. "That's not the point, idiot. You left the daggers for me without a peep. Sandor was furious." She chewed at the corner of her mouth, the bruises he left on her arm suddenly throbbing.

Brow knit, Gendry took her arm to examine the purple and green marks the Hound's angry fingers had left, but she wrenched herself free and put a hand over them. "I'm fine." She snapped.

Gendry surrendered, palms facing her. "Sandor as in Sandor Clegane?"

The concern in his eyes filled Arya with white hot disgust. _I don't need your concern, and I want it even less._ "Yes Sandor Clegane. He gets jobs for me and I get to survive." She sipped her drink, her lip curling.

"You work for him?" This seemed to be something quite intriguing to Gendry.

"We work for each other." Arya wove her words carefully.

"That's what he calls it, yeah?" She grumbled into her cup, hoping that would serve for an answer. She focused on the soft burning in her stomach instead.

"Did he... Has he hurt you?" Gendry's voice was soft now. The low grovel of it was two rocks grinding together to spark Arya's attention; this she could not ignore.

She could offer no snappy response, she could tell he had the stubbornness of a bull. Perhaps that was why his helmet was shaped like one. "Yes and no. When he gets angry or when I lie to him, like a while ago with your daggers. My daggers. Whatever."

Gendry's eyes widened and flit from hers to her bruises. "_That was my fault_?" Guilt was dripping from his tone like water from an awning after heavy rain.

"No, it wasn't. I'm just not a very good liar, I guess." Her gaze rested at the bottom of her cup, on the last drops of mulled wine. "Besides, if he was _really_ trying to hurt me, I wouldn't let him."

At this, her companion snorted, his grin hanging off his face like a crooked fixture. "Right, yes. You'd riddle him with holes with your trusty... sword. Can I call it a sword?" He pursed his lips and tried his best to sound serious, but his eyes were singing with laughter.

"I'll have you know I wield Needle artfully." Arya replied haughtily. When Gendry continued to chortle, she grumbled loudly. "Wipe that grin off your face, at least I don't clank on the job." She quipped.

Gendry showed his palms, eyes fixed on hers. "You've got me. I saw a girl stuffing a body in a closet and got curious." At Arya's furious insistence to keep it down, he leaned back and folded his arms. "The helmet's at the clock tower, I won't be clanking on the job any longer, I promise. You'd see for yourself if you were so obliged to... co-operate with me again. There's to be a grand old ball at Duke Tyrell's little settlement- it would be so wonderful if you could make it." The last sentence he slipped into a formal english accent, but was unable to keep a straight face.

The warm tingly feeling in the pits of her stomach suddenly froze, forming knots of cold steel. "I-I don't know." She could picture the real Robert Baratheon sitting before her, illusions of grandeur clouding his judgement. "Sounds like a big job, especially for two." She tugged at her ear uncomfortably. "I'd rather no-"

She was interrupted by a flood of officers crashing into the inn. They seemed to keep coming, their crimson capes forming a mass of blood cloaked warriors. They searched the crowd with heartless eyes, hands at their swords. The room fell silent in the blink of an eye.

Their commanding officer stepped forward to address the innkeep. "We're looking for someone, mayhaps you could help us find them?"

And in that moment, she was Arya Stark again, Ned Stark's daughter, playing knights with her brothers with wooden swords. Her heart rate quickening, Arya fumbled for Gendry's hand under the table. They were looking for her, she knew it.

"And who are you looking for?" The bartender piped up. Slowly but surely, everyone but Arya and Gendry rose to their feet. There was one rule in the lower parts of Thatching: no one was *anyone* to the law. Arya's forefinger brushed over Gendry's wrist- his pulse was even quicker than hers. _Why?_

The commanding officer shuffled awkwardly, ignoring the murmur that broke out among his comrades. "He goes by Gendry- he's a bastard boy of Robert Baratheon's. Black hair, blue eyes" A brush fire of whispers ignited among the crowd.

Arya glanced at her companion with a weird mixture of relief and terror in her coal black eyes. They weren't looking for her, but oh Gods, they were looking for him. Her mind clicked into high gear.

There were only two exits to this building- the front and the back door. Seeing as the front was clogged with men, the back was their only option. Now, she couldn't count on the door being absolutely quiet, and she couldn't trust Gendry to hush any more. She needed to create a distraction.

Her eyes flit to Gendry's cup. There was still wine in it- and so the plan was formed.

Making an effort to be as clumsy and drunk looking as possible, Arya crashed into the drunken sept in front of her, Gendry's cup in her hand as she did so. Her lissome limbs seemed to become knitting yarn, but her plan played out perfectly. There was wine all over his tunic, and the stares of people around them to compliment it. In the process of taking a step back from the completely sober menace that was Arya, he collided with the man in front of him, and with that, the unity of the crowd disbanded into unease. This was her queue.

As everyone was arguing about who spilled wine on who, who hit who, who wanted another drink, and whose gods were superior, Arya and Gendry slipped out the back door and into the bustling festival just beyond their toes.  
This time it was Gendry who reached for her. He wove her through the crowds with surprising ease, catching Arya off of her guard. "Since when do you move like this?" She asked, struck suddenly by the question.

"Like what?" He replied, leading her past a firedancer and a mass of people crowded around her.

"Like _this_." As they skirmished their way past shoulders and elbows and bottles and cakes, people complained if they touched them, and didn't notice them if not. It was casual, but not in the least clumsy. Gendry was attuned to laughter and the slowness of drunken feet- not to skinny roofs and running from guards.

"You keep to your alleyways and your tunnels and the like-I don't need them." There was arrogance in his voice, but she shrugged it off and followed up with another question.

"Are you going to tell me what that was about or not?" Her father would scold her for asking questions she didn't need to, but Syrio would have encouraged it.  
Gendry ran a hand through his inky hair as they broke free of the mass of festival entranced people, searching the sky for stars Thatching hadn't seen in ages.

"The Lannister woman. She wants me. Dead, that is." He finally said, watching the wind scoop up some leaves on the sidewalk.

The name made Arya's face tighten. _Lannister_. It was such an ugly name, a near to bursting suitcase of blood and greed and manipulation, all padlocked in crimson. If you weren't a Lannister, you were a pawn. "Why's that?" She answered distantly, meanwhile biting her cheek to the point of drawing blood.

Her companion heaved a sigh. She watched his jaw clench and unclench and thought maybe she should stop pressing the question, but when she opened her mouth to express this, he continued. "I didn't even know, in the beginning. I had no idea what the hell was going on and then suddenly I'm on the streets with a wet newspaper in my hand and no idea why. It was when Robert was caught, you remember. Cersei Lannister was being questioned."

He ran a hand along the stubble peppering his jaw and squinted. "When they questioned her, she said she'd known about me. Known Robert was my to her, he spent a lot of time at my little blacksmith's shop." He paused to laugh softly. "I didn't even know he was my father until I read that paper. Anyway, she said she didn't make much of it. She wasn't interested in him; he'd won her hand in a gambling tourney with her father. Apparently Tywin Lannister has a weakness for games-people chattered on about his loss for months, how beautiful Cersei was wasted on a man like Robert bloody Baratheon."  
His face was screwed up in a mixture of disgust and anger. It made Arya feel justified- it wasn't just her that hated the Lannisters. It made her proud. "All she cared for were her children- Thommen, Myrcella, and her eldest, Joffrey. She kept me a secret because she didn't want them to grow up thinking their father was a dishonorable man. But now, it read," He paused to make air quotations with his fingers. "She suspects he 'saw me' so much so we could discuss criminal plans."

She hadn't realized it, but they'd circled around the festival to the clocktower. Gendry held one door open for her, but she pushed the other open herself and welcomed the musty air. "That's rough." She commented, fairly stunned by his long winded tale. As exhaustion washed over her in warm waves, her mouth ran before her brain did. "Where do you even sleep?" She blurted.

Gendry cleared his throat and gestured to the clocktower. "Home sweet home. Some days I find an inn to crash at, some days the streets, but mostly here." He clomped up the stairs, Arya on his heels.

They sat looking out over the city, alive and colourful, rich with the festival, their legs dangling off the edge of the tower. Arya leaned forward, her elbows on her thighs. "Don't you get cold? It rains most of the time, but I guess you've got that under control." She smirked. "I was wondering where that bucket came from."

He leaned back on his hands and let out a great sigh, his light eyes like gleaming jewels, shining among the blanket of darkness upon them. Suddenly, he looked at her, his gaze so heavy it startled her. "It's better than working for Sandor Clegane."

She ground her teeth, the image of the Hound's fingers digging into her arm flashing across her mind's eye. "I don't know what else to do. He's good to me- I have a bed. I eat. I sleep. Around this time of year I can buy extra stuff." She couldn't hold his stare, instead he looked down at her clasped hands. There were little crescent moon marks where her nails had dug into her skin.

Gendry broke into a crooked grin, licking his lips. "Live here with me. We can steal as we like, sleep as we like, go as we like. The Lannister Bitch has to give up on me at some point." It was a nervous plea, and they both knew it.

Her heart felt as if it were tearing itself to pieces. She pursed her lips and hauled her dark eyes to his light ones, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I can't, you know I can't. Sandor doesn't take well to deserters. He'd tell people about me, what I look like. Who I am."

Moonlight cut across his jaw, tracing the shadows set in his cheeks and his chin, brushing over the unshaven spots of stubble on his neck. "Tell me if he hurts you. Please, Arya." His voice was casual, but it was not a request. He continued before she could answer. "Anyway, a fortnight from now, at the Tinted Palace.

They're celebrating an engagement. Come with me, I need a meat shield." He teased, flicking her arm.

She giggled, but didn't respond for a while. "Fine, but if you're caught, I'm not sticking around." Her voice was joking, but her words were too heavy for the light tone to carry seamlessly. "You understand, right?"

"Yeah. I understand." He lied.

~The usual, though this one's rather long. Next chapter involves a glimpse at old family.~


End file.
